Stories about short poem

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No, beta, the trees can’t talk and sing,
Nature doesn’t invite you in,
And the wind certainly doesn’t give you wings!
No, no, colours don’t melt,
Transcendental emotions you pen aren’t felt,
Word in your poems,
Are sounds, lines, and curves,
Not pillows, crutches and memory reserves.
And please, people are people,
Can’t see a rose in a person and person in a rose,
A void exists only in space,
Not in her eyes!
Her hair, how can it be like a fall?
Her smile like a fresh stream,
And laughter like a heart’s somersault?
Sorry, beta, but the dead are dead.
Their love and laughter, you can’t store,
And their memories, time will ...